


Everyone That Ever Was

by LadyLazarus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cemetery, Ficlet, I cry about the sad things in derek's life a whole lot i'm sorry, M/M, Wakes & Funerals, carnations, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLazarus/pseuds/LadyLazarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a short ficlet for Lee :)</p><p>The prompt was:</p><p>"imagine if someone saw derek at a graveyard and they watched him put down like two or three flowers at the graves of every person that he’d lost. and when they first saw him he’d had this huge bunch of flowers but by the end of it he didnt have any left and the person watching realises for the first time that derek hasnt lost someone he’s lost everyone</p><p>imagine"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone That Ever Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leewrites/gifts).



It definitely wasn’t the first time Stiles noticed Derek near the flower shop on Maynard Street. When something happens a lot like that, it’s just background noise and Stiles definitely didn’t notice until it was probably the third or fourth time. But this time, Stiles didn’t have anywhere to be.

And being Stiles, being curious and just a little dark and fucked up, he followed Derek.

The Beacon Hills cemetery isn’t anything special. Isaac could easily tell you that. There are headstones and those ugly fake flowers that stay stuck in the ground year-round until the fade from the sunlight. There’s no imposing mausolea or giant angel statues looking on with their blind eyes.

Truly, it’s just a regular mid-size suburban collection of graves. Stiles stood across the street from the access road that ran nearby the graveyard – the place that served as the parking lot for the cemetery. He watched as Derek climbed out of his Camaro with an enormous bouquet of white carnations.

Stiles remembered the first time he saw carnations put to use. At his mother’s wake and her funeral and then every year on mother’s day and her birthday that followed those flowers would appear. He knew the velvety feeling of their petals, how their sturdy stems didn’t snap as easily as you wanted them to, and their ruffles – those ruffles were the worst because when you were screaming and the tears didn’t stop and you had ripped up the condolence cards and thrown away the magnets on the fridge and even ripped up the fucking take out menu from the place she liked, you _still_ couldn’t crush those flowers. They unfurled and the extra wrinkles made them fuller and they bloomed more in your distress. They took your pain and made it their beauty, and somehow, though it should have hurt more, it calmed you. Stiles knew about carnations well.

So when he saw Derek with so many, twenty, thirty – who knew but the florist – Stiles saw the amount of pain he had for whomever would receive those flowers. All that pain and misery Derek usually clutched to himself was going to be laid down, one bloom at a time finally.

Stiles watched and Derek stopped in front of a headstone that looked old – weathered, like the ones around it. Derek touched the carved marble, tracing words, a name, and left three of his flowers behind. The headstone next to it received the treatment: a reflective pause, a weary grasp at the cool stone, and three flowers.

Nine others followed with two blossoms each. His bouquet dwindled to a small handful of flowers. Stiles watched Derek mourn eleven people in his life. Eleven people that had left him. This man, who was never supposed to lead others, to care for a pack, never supposed to become a man without a family, he wasn’t supposed to be burdened with their tombs. No matter what, Derek was still the boy mute and stunned at the community funeral. The Sheriff had offered his condolences and the city council members and some members of nearby packs. He was in a suit a little too small for him, a stuffy white shirt that still smelled like the closet it had come out of and a wrinkled tie no one had cared to iron. He was that boy in the corner with a clear plastic cup of water, wishing it were poison or a potion to switch places with the dead.

Derek visited two more graves. At each he seemed angry and defeated. His shoulders hunched in failure. He carried the knots of anguish in his muscles. His back was tightened into the stressful coils that had twisted his heart for so many years, and he gave them flowers. These flowers weren’t just loss, but apologies and promises. They wished nothing but pain for the responsible.

Stiles crossed the street toward the cemetery quietly. The wind was blowing toward him, so Derek wouldn’t smell him and years now of tip-toeing around werewolves had taught Stiles how to tread lightly. By now it seemed that with three carnations, Derek only had one last place to go.

When Stiles got near Derek he was kneeling, the carnations tossed at his side. Derek was embracing the headstone, forcing back tears that pushed past his eyes anyway. He shuddered with the moans of men who lose their hearts in war. No man had ever looked so defeated, so destroyed. On the side of the stone where Derek held it, old and new claw marks were etched into the surface, as if too many days and nights at this plot had called to the animal in Derek, reduced him so quickly and efficiently, burning up his humanity. There was red too. Nails or claws that broke after hours of wracking fits, the only release being the physical pain of Derek’s body.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, reaching out with an unsteady hand, “I’m here.”

Derek tensed for a moment, slowly relaxed and calmed himself. He pulled back a hand to wipe at his face, to water the graveflowers with his tears before the reddened flare of anger overtook his features and his body shook even more violently in despair.

“Derek, I’ve got you,” Stiles comforted, reaching down to Derek, kneeling with him and wrapping his body around the other man’s. Derek shifted so that his back was to the headstone He sat curled in on himself away from the cool marble. Stiles held him in his arms until Derek had stilled.

Derek let out a long heavy sigh that shook with the after effects of his fit as Stiles looked to the headstone for the first time to see the name etched into its surface.

**_Stiles Stilinski  
Brother, Son, Husband_ **

And as Derek stood, he passed through Stiles’ body, wiped his hands across his face, and walked back through the cemetery that held his life, his love, and everyone that ever was.

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SORRY ABOUT THIS. REALLY, I AM. You can find me on Tumblr as [Foolproofpoem.](http://foolproofpoem.tumblr.com) Come cry about Derek Hale's life and everything teen wolf with me!


End file.
